The Prince's Right Hand
by Count of Monte Cristo
Summary: Deornoth, a young farm boy, dreams of becoming a knight. A fateful day realizes that dream for him, and he enters training, destined to become one of Prince Josua's most loyal knights. Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn fanfic.
1. A Dream

A horn sounded. Like an advancing wave of ants, a horde of black approached from the distance. Rallying his troops back and preparing for the clash when the enemy hit, the knight tried to calm his horse. He wore the green and gold colors of his liege, an outright declaration of his loyalty. His men, wearing similar uniforms, followed him dutifully, each crying their own war cries.  
The first of the enemy sped up their hill. The knight raised his sword, and, waiting for the exact moment, brought it down. With a unified cry, they spurred their horses forward, taking the enemy by surprise. A few clashes of sword along with the arrows of their backup took care of the first wave. They backed up, waiting for the second. The knight smiled. The enemy might have the numbers, but they had the spirit.  
Suddenly, a stray arrow whizzed out of nowhere. The knight managed to skirt it in time, only to see his friend go down. Cursing, he turned his horse around, shouting at his second-in-command to take over.  
"Rion!" he shouted to his friend, kicking his steed, "Rion! Hold on!" Weaving his way through the advancing army, the screams, the fallen soldiers, he arrived at his friend's side. The arrow had struck true and Rion was on the ground, barely moving. "Rion," the knight promised, "Rion, don't move. I'll get you out of here. I promise."  
Something jostled him. The knight turned his horse, trying to avoid the commotion around him. Someone shouted at him, and all of a sudden, something hard hit his shoulder.  
Deornoth groaned, trying to get up. Another whack came, this time on his other shoulder. Refusing to make a sound, Deornoth struggled, until finally, he was back on his feet, staring defiantly into the angry face of his father.  
"Slackin' off now, are we?" his father snarled, his uneven yellow teeth bared. Deornoth said nothing, keeping his jaw tight. He tried to ignore the spreading pain.  
His father took him by his bruised shoulder and shook him violently, adding to the already unbearable pain. "Answer me, boy!"  
Deornoth glared at his father, hating his trembling shoulders under his father's grasp. A bead of sweat rolled down his face, splashing on the rim of his dirty shirt. His father stared angrily at him for another second before hitting him one last time with his stick. Pain blasted through him, and only when he could no longer see his father did Deornoth collapse onto the ground.  
He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his pounding heart, trying to push down the hate he felt bubbling up. He looked around. The others were working innocently, though no doubt, they had been watching the incident between him and his father. He could see his little brother Tobe steal glances at him every once in a while, between the weeds he tugged out of the ground.  
Suddenly, something hit him hard in the stomach. Deornoth recoiled and instinctively rolled to cover his stomach. A snigger came from above, and another kick came. "Don't think y' can fool nobody," he could hear his older brother, Juhno sneer. "We all know what y' were thinkin' 'bout."  
"Excellent. Maybe y' can get a job as th' King's fortune teller," Deornoth groaned, pushing himself to his feet. "Won't that be fun."  
"Listen, idiot." Juhno seized Deornoth's arm, and despite himself, Deornoth let out a whimper. "I know y' were thinkin' 'bout becomin' a knight. Fer Prester John, maybe?" Seeing Deornoth's expression, Juhno grinned. His dirty face shined with triumph. "Good luck. Y' can become a knight as much as I can become a woman, y' little pea. Now, I'm tellin' you, if anyone becomes a knight, it'll be me. I'm the oldest, here, ain't I? I'm the strongest. So why don't y' get back t' work, so I can grow even stronger, eh? Y'd want our family to have somethin' to brag 'bout, don't you?" Juhno puffed out his chest. "What 'bout the greatest knight in the world, Sir Juhno?" He kicked Deornoth one last time. "Git back t' work, y' weaklin'. I'm gettin' hungry."  
Deornoth carefully watched his brother leave before bending down and slowly tugging a weed out of the ground. A quick look around told him that everyone was way ahead of him. Had he really been daydreaming for that long? He sighed and pulled out another. He should pick up the pace, or else he wouldn't get any dinner. Not that he would get any anyway, with Juhno after him like that.  
"Hey, Deo." Rion appeared at his side, his red hair flaming from the reflection of the sun. "Rough day, eh?"  
"Ay." Deornoth pushed his sweaty brown hair out of his eyes. "Help me. I'm gonna get beat again if I don't finish these rows by sunset."  
Rion let out a low whistle, but bent down and tugged an ugly weed out. "Y' never gonna git these done, Deo. What'd you been doing all day?"  
Deornoth shrugged. "Y' know. Stuff." He stopped and looked into his friend's green eyes. "Y' think we'll ever get to be knights, Rion?"  
There was a silence. Rion thought for a moment before replying. "I really wish so, Deo, but I think tis 'bout time we realize it's impossible." He looked around. "Tis every farm boy's wish. But how many of those ever got to be knights?"  
"Great Sir Yevan did," Deornoth pointed out quickly. Sir Yevan was his hero, his one hope that he could become a knight. "If he can be, why can't we?"  
Rion sighed. "Deo, Sir Yevan was a legend. And the fact that he started out a poor farm boy is yet another legend! And even if he were a farm boy, he was probably one that had royal blood."  
Deornoth shook his head. "I don't believe that." He stopped working and looked at his friend fiercely. "Y' might not want to become a knight anymore, Rion, but I do. And I'm going to."  
His friend contemplated this for a second. "Well," he finally admitted, "if y' DO become knight, y'd might consider me for your mate or somethin'."  
"Ay. Right." Deornoth moved further down the row. "Say, what d'y' think about getting' out those old sticks again and tryin' our hand at swordfightin'?"  
Rion laughed. "Stickfightin', y' mean?" He shrugged. "I guess, if we got too much time on our hands. Though," he looked at Deornoth doubtfully. "Yer not gonna get anywhere the way yer workin'."  
Deornoth ignored him, pulling out a stalk with particular force. "Who said I gotta finish my work?" He felt hatred bubble up at his father again and swallowed it down. "I'm not going to listen to him anymore," he said quietly at Rion's confused face. "He can starve me all he wants. But I'm not going to let him get t'me like that again."  
Rion sighed, shaking his head. "Deo," he said finally, grunting as he tugged a particularly hard weed out of the ground, "Y' really need t' swallow some of that pride y' got." He combed a hand through his hair uncomfortably. "I know we've always been best friends, since... since y' know, ever. But you're different now." He sighed. "It's like y' never grown up."  
Deornoth stared into Rion's apologetic face. "Fine, then" he finally said simply, "if y' want to accept that you're going to be planting these things for the rest of your life, that's fine with me." He let his hard blue eyes drill into Rion's before shrugging. "Thanks fer your help. I can manage." Without a word, Deornoth bent down to pull out another weed.  
There was silence. Then, slowly, Rion turned around. "I guess I'll be seeing you then," he said quietly. He left. Deornoth refused to let himself turn around and watch him go.  
***  
The next morning came all too quickly. Deornoth blinked blearily as the sun seeped through his windows, illuminating the undersides of his eyelids. His stomach growled hungrily—he had finished his work, but just as he promised, Juhno took his food. Ignoring the pain, Deornoth jumped up, then listened to make sure that the house was still asleep. Satisfied, he quietly took out the stick he had found years before, then left the house.  
The crisp air bit his nose as he stepped outside. Picking a good spot near the large oak tree, Deornoth stared down at his stick, then, hesitantly, twisted his wrist and brought it up and down in an arc. Heartened by his success, he repeated the action, this time a bit faster. Soon, he had himself in a sweat, putting more and more moves in each time. With twists and turns and blocks and thrusts, he almost felt like he was a knight already.  
The door opened and Deornoth stopped immediately, jumping behind the tree. Peeking out, he saw it was his oldest sister, Tira, coming out to feed the chickens. Throwing his stick in the bushes, Deornoth stepped out casually, pretending like he was actually doing something useful.  
Tira eyed him suspiciously as she scattered the corn, though not unkindly. "What're y' doing, up so early?"  
Deornoth shrugged. "Not much. It's a nice day out."  
She sighed. "Too nice. I wish it'd rain so the crops could get some water." Shaking her head, she went back inside  
Deornoth stared after her. I'll get you away from this place, part of him wanted to tell her. I'll get you away from this life, I promise. I'll make enough for all of you to live a life where you don't have to rely on the weather for food, where you don't have to slave for what you should take for granted. Yet the other, more sensible part of him knew that he should listen to Rion and stop dreaming. They needed all the help they could get to survive. Sighing, he followed his sister back inside and started the day's work. 


	2. Revenge

Deornoth continued his training, getting up early each morning to work on his swordsmanship. His skills sharpened with the summer, and soon, he graduated from his stick to his pitchfork. All around him, his family members noticed a shift in his mood with curiosity. Unlike his usual dreamy self, Deornoth would be the first one up, and already working furiously in the fields when they came out. The first one finished, he would dash off to nowhere with his pitchfork, then come back in a sweat for dinner. They left him alone, however; he was a better worker than he had ever been, and that was all that mattered.  
Things had not improved with Rion. Deornoth's friend had stopped coming over; in fact, when they saw each other by chance on a path or in the market, both averted their gaze to the dirt or perhaps a vendor. Deornoth could feel Rion's gaze on his new muscles when he wasn't looking, however. He hoped that Rion would still be enough of a friend to not tell anyone. He was stronger and faster now, yes, but there was no way he could avoid his father's whip, something he knew he would get if his father knew what he was doing each day. Deornoth longed to tell his friend what he was doing, how he was stronger now and how he could wield a sword almost as well as a castle boy, but he refrained. Rion made his decision. Deornoth wouldn't be the one crawling back, begging for the other's company.  
Rion, however, was not the only one who noticed Deornoth's strength and skills. One day, while Deornoth was working, his mind going over a new thrust he had seen the king's men practice, he felt Juhno's hulking form behind him. Groaning inwardly, he tensed, waiting for the sound of something whooshing through the air.  
He wasn't quick enough. Pain seared through him as Deornoth made a mental note to work on his speed. Instinctively leaning on his pitchfork for support, he kept himself upright, then glared into Juhno's eyes. "What?" he asked, annoyed. "Shirking your duties? Father won't like that."  
"Shut it." Juhno kicked him again. Deornoth, ready this time, whipped his pitchfork up to block it. Juhno's foot hit wood.  
"I knew it!" Juhno cried triumphantly. Seeing Deornoth's innocent expression, he sneered at him. "Don't play cute with me. I know what' yer doing. Practicing yer swordsmanship, aren't ye?"  
Deornoth was silent, knowing it had been a mistake to block Juhno's kick. He fumed.  
Juhno laughed, seeing Deornoth's tortured expression. "Yer really dull enough to think that practicing with a stupid pitchfork will get y' into the Erkynguard, aren't ye?" He shot Deornoth a look of disgust. "In yer dreams. Yer a middle son. I told you before, an' I'm gonna tell y' again. If anyone makes it, it'll be me."  
"Too bad," Deornoth spat. "When the oldest is too stupid and ugly, they have to go to the middle."  
Juhno let out an inhuman cry of rage. He came rushing at Deornoth, apparently forgetting that Deornoth had a weapon he could wield with sufficient skill, opposed to his nothing.  
Deornoth weighed his odds. Juhno, being insulted, would go and tell their father not matter what happened. He was going to get in trouble anyway, and there was no point in not having any fun before that. At any rate, he'd been dying to try his skills on a real opponent. He tensed, ready.  
His training paid off. Juhno, in his rage, wildly threw his fists out, letting Deornoth block each of them with absolutely no effort. They continued like this for a while, until Deornoth, distinctly aware that the entire family, save for his parents, were watching. Deciding it was time to end things, he took his chance during one of Juhno's recoils to let the pointy end of the pitchfork strike. Juhno howled with pain as the three points nudged into his skin. Rage renewed, he came at Deornoth again, who blocked expertly and jabbed Juhno again. Blood oozed out the points on his chest. A gasp came from his family as they saw the red.  
His blood boiling now too, Deornoth's blocks became fiercer, his stabs stronger. All of a sudden, images flashed before him. Juhno, stealing his food and his toys, bullying him and his siblings all through their lives. His father, beating him and his sisters and Tobe, screaming at them, cursing them. His mother, crying, pleading with his father for him to stop beating their children. Tobe, starving, begging Deornoth for food and a toy to play with. Suddenly, these memories appeared on Juhno's face, became a part of Juhno. Deornoth felt anger well up, and he beat faster and harder, hitting his brother more and more, intent on only destroying those images, destroying those memories. He no longer saw the bloodied form of his brother, the angry-turned-pleading face, no longer heard the begs of mercy and strained apologies.  
It was Tira who finally caught Deornoth. He struggled in her grasp, panting, unknown tears streaming down his face, then went limp, the will to fight evaporating. His sister hushed him like she did when he was a little boy, then gently took the pitchfork out of his hands.  
Juhno struggled to his feet, and only then could Deornoth see the damage he did on his brother. Little droplets of blood were everywhere on his body where the points of the pitchfork had punctured his skin. His shirt was now in tatters, subject to the hard tearing. Crimson ran from scrapes on his arm, and his face was bruising badly. Deornoth blanched, but refused to let his brother see that.  
"Bastard." Juhno spat at Deornoth's feet. A bloodied glob landed on the grass near him. He looked Deornoth in the eye. "I won't b' forgetting this," he warned. It would be the story of town for a long time, and Deornoth knew that his father would starve and whip him for days on end. But he no longer cared. He eyed Juhno coldly.  
"Juhno," Tira coaxed desperately, "Juhno, it wasn't entirely his fault. Y' had some part in it too."  
"I did? I did?!" Juhno advanced threateningly again. "Y' have the nerve to say that it was my fault? Look at what the bastard did to me!" He held out his arms, now completely red. "Look!"  
"Juhno." Tira looked away, despite herself. "Juhno, y' made him. Y' know he has his pride. Just like y' have yers."  
Juhno took another step and Deornoth threatened, ready to jump up and defend his sister should the need occur. "Yer always defending him," he said with disgust. "But see if I care. An' see if I'll listen." He was now speaking to their entire family. "Y' wanna be on his side, that's fine with me. Just don't beg me t' spare you when I come out on top." He stalked off into the house, no doubt to complain to their mother.  
Aranna rose and followed him without a backwards glance. There was a silence, then Tobe rose. He looked Deornoth in the eyes, and for a second, Deornoth saw himself in the little boy's face. Quietly, Tobe gave him an untrusting, apologetic look, then turned and went into the house. Deornoth watched his little brother go, then looked down. He put his head in his hands.  
"Deo." Tira lifted his face, gently wiping the tears away from his cheek and giving him a hug. "I'll talk with him. We all make mistakes."  
"No." Deornoth wrenched his head away from Tira's grasp. He quickly brushed his tears away. "Go with them, Tira. Don't help me anymore."  
Tira chuckled, though it was unconvincing. "What do y' mean, 'don't help me anymore'? I'm yer sister. Of course I'll always help ye."  
"No." Deornoth turned away. "I'm not going t' let him hurt you on account of me. Be on his side." He pushed himself up and out of her grasp.  
It pained Tira, he could tell, but he had to do it. "Go." He turned around and looked into her eyes. "I'll be fine." He stepped off their field and crossed onto the road.  
"Deo!" Tira pleaded, "Deo! Come back! It won't work."  
"It's going to." Deornoth turned around and faced his sister for the last time. "I'll see you again, Tira. I promise. I'll get you out of this mess." He knew then that he had to. If not for his dreams of becoming the greatest knight, then for Tira's sake.  
"Deo!" Tara begged one last time, but Deornoth turned his back on her, refusing to let himself see her again. 


End file.
